The Start of Something
by x-posed-again
Summary: The start of a relationship or the downfall of a friendship?


His mouth moved in a vague effort to contort his brain into formulating thoughts, hoping if his lips matched the words in his head and on the page that something seemingly coherent could be forced out. Unfortunately for him all of what energy he had left had been spent hours before on the pitch. Not that flying had ever really been work for him. It was something his body took to naturally. Every bend and contour of his form a perfect match for edging around opponents and hurling quaffles though the air. It was like his body knew how to react before his brain ever got the chance to think.

Yet at the moment he was wondering where that natural ability had escaped to.

It was late… far later than he had intended to still be at this, but there he was. Still standing at the kitchen counter, still leaning over his playbook, still in his mud soaked practice clothes, still frustrated. He arched his back and rolled his shoulders. A deep ache had settle in and he twisted and moved in an effort to alleviate the pain. No matter how many years he had played for, his body would never be accustomed to the harsh beating it took almost daily.

In an act of defeat he would never admit happened he slammed his elbows down onto the high marble countertop and rested his head in his hands. _Complete utter bullshit_. The words were mumbled towards the floor as he delivered a swift kick to the cupboard below. Drops of water ran down his fingers and forehead from his rain soaked hair and he briefly ran a hand though the strands in an attempt to brush off the excess moisture.

It was stupid really, the amount of effort he had put into writing this quidditch play. This should be easy. Yesterday he had the entire thing planned out in his mind. Yet tonight all he had were tired eyes and fuzzy thoughts.

The sound of the door latch unlocking didn't even faze him as he glared at the countertop, watching the small drops of water falling from his skin collect and merge in front of him.

***********

Oliver walked up the hallway whistling as he went. In contrast to his flat-mate's day his had been quite productive and enjoyable. Early practice, lunch with the team, practice again then drinks afterwards. Even his wet shoes couldn't dampen his mood at the moment. Reaching his apartment Oliver swung the door open, dropped his bag to the floor with a thud and began to toe his shoes off.

"I fuckin' love rain," Oliver grinned ear to ear as he placed his shoes upside down to dry. Receiving no answer he slammed one of his shoes hard against the ground in an attempt to cast off the excess water. "Oi Flint, are ye deaf tonight?"

Again his question was answered with only silence and a loud sniff from the other side of the room.

Oliver looked up to see his flat-mate leaning over the kitchen countertop, neck bent down, head almost resting on the marble, hands clasp together behind his neck. The Keeper chuckled lightly as he made his way over to the kitchen.

"Lost in his bloody playbook again," Oliver just shook his head as he mumbled to himself. He positioned himself on the opposite side of the countertop, grabbed a seat on a barstool, and placed his chin in his hands staring directly at the top of Flint's head. "What ye doin' over 'ere?"

Slowly the Chaser lifted his head until his green eyes locked with steel blue. "What does it look like I'm doing?" The words grunted out through clenched teeth.

"Mmm," Oliver playfully tossed his head from side to side in mock indecision. "Looks like you are wallowing in some sort of self induced pity." He punctuated the statement with an over enthusiastic smile. "But that's just if ya ask me."

"Well I didn't," Marcus scowled at the unwanted interruption. "So bugger off." It was hard enough concentrating without Wood smirking at him. A slight pounding had begun to settle in behind his eyes and he quickly rubbed at his temples in a hasty attempt to alleviate the pain.

In the background Marcus heard Oliver walk out of the room and, once satisfied he was alone again, let out a loud groan before allowing his head to fall against the countertop with a loud thud. _Just what I needed. The prefect fucking end to the perfect fucking day._ "Tell me again _why_ I thought living with you would be a good idea?" Marcus yelled the question directly into the countertop.

"Could 'ave been my charm," Oliver made his way out of the bathroom and walked over to the fridge. "Might 'ave been my sense of humor. But more than likely drinks were involved in the decision."

"Lots of drink," came the muffled reply.

Oliver just laughed again as he pulled two bottles of water from fridge. Twisting off the clean white top of one of the bottles he placed it in front of the Chaser along with two small pills.

Marcus lifted his head at the sound and glanced from the bottle to the pills then back over to his flat-mate.

"For the headache," Oliver said between gulps of water. "So what _are_ you working on anyway?" The Keeper quickly changed the subject, grabbing the tattered playbook by the corner and twisting it in his direction.

"Some stupid play that I can't make work the way I know it should." Marcus quickly downed the pills along with half of the bottle of water. "It's probably shite anyway."

"I wouldn't say that," Oliver leaned in closer to the book to examine the play further. "I think you are really onto something 'ere. Maybe if you moved the path of this Chaser here then you could…" his eyes trailed a course on the paper then quickly diverted over to Marcus who was standing with his back against the opposite counter pinching the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

Oliver quietly observed him for a moment. The small twinge of pain written across his face, the deep steady breathing, the persistent water drops that clung to his clothes and hair—if Oliver could paint a picture of exhausted, Marcus would be it at the moment.

The Keeper flipped the playbook closed with his thumb before walking over to his discarded quidditch bag still lying on the floor. He rummaged around in the bag before pulling out a clean towel leftover from practice. Walking over to his flatmate he dropped the towel on the Chaser's head and gently tousled it through his hair.

"Go get some rest," Oliver pulled the towel down and hung it around Marcus' neck. "You look like hell." The last bit said with a slight bit of humor.

Oliver pulled his hands away from the towel and started to back away when Marcus quickly caught the Keeper's hand with his own.

"Thanks," the faintest of smiles playing on his lips.

"It's nothing," Oliver quickly cleared his through it an attempt to distract from the slightly awkward moment. "Now go to bed." A playful shove on the Chaser's shoulder served as a final emphasis on his point.

"Yeah yeah, I got it." Marcus ran the towel over his hair a few more times before finally making his way towards his bedroom. "See if you can figure out that play for me would you?"

"Sure," Oliver cocked a questioning eyebrow at the book. "I'll uh… I'll see what I can do."

The heavy wood door to the second bedroom was quickly closed behind the Chaser leaving Oliver alone and wondering when Flint had ever asked for help… especially his.

Ever since Marcus was drafted to Puddlemere United a few months back the relationship between the two formal rivals had metamorphosized into something almost civil. It had started with welcome drinks at the bar, despite Oliver's instance that it was really unnecessary and Flint probably wouldn't even show. But when the tall lean figure of the former Balleycaste Chaser emerged from the doorway Oliver almost choked on his drink.

What started as one drink led to two then three and before he knew it Flint was fitting in like he had always bled blue and gold.

It was the moment somewhere between drink five and six that someone asked their new Chaser where he was going to be living and somewhere closer to six when their Seeker mentioned that Oliver had an extra room in his flat. It was definitely closer to seven drinks when Oliver and Marcus decided to be flat-mates and well after passing out and waking up with a hangover when Oliver realized what he had agreed to.

A string of mumbled curse words flowing from Flint's room drifted by as Oliver was making his way around the kitchen in search of a late night snack. He paused for a moment, listened, made to tap on the door, paused, cursed under his breath and then tentatively raped on the door. He was almost relieved where there was no answer only to be caught off guard a few seconds later when the door was swung open followed by a loud 'what!?'

"You alright in there?" Oliver took a step back as he spoke, hoping to avoid being trapped in the Chaser's apparent warpath.

"Bloody buckles are stuck," Marcus stuck his hand up in the air to emphasize the point. "Waited too long to take off the gloves and now the buckles have seized up from the rain and mud."

Oliver almost laughed at how easily frustrated Marcus could get sometimes. Thinking better of it, and not wanting to risk a black eye or busted lip, he just rolled his eyes and reached out for one of the worn gloves still adoring the Chaser's hands.

"If ye would just take the time to clean 'um a bit better," Oliver said as he fiddled with the first buckle. "They wouldn't do this to ya."

"I do clean them." Marcus replied as his left hand was finally freed from its wet leather confine. "Just don't feel the need to scrub every inch of them every night."

"Oliver paused and looked up with an annoyed stare. "Well if ya did…" he tugged harder on the remaining glove "then we wouldn't have… this… problem." With one final pull the buckle released its hold.

"Watch it Wood," Marcus shook his right arm around as if trying to rid himself of some unseen pain. "This arm is valuable."

Oliver shoved the gloves into the Chaser's hands. "Keep tellin' yourself that Flint and maybe someday someone will believe it. Besides, you're left handed so that's really the only one I really care about." A quick flash of a fake smile and Oliver was heading down the hall towards his room, late night snack completely forgotten.

"Come off it Wood," Marcus shouted down the hall. "You know you love having me on the team."

The sound of Oliver's bedroom door shutting was the only replied he received.

Marcus walked back into his room and tossed the gloves onto a chair before collapsing on the bed. He still had to remove his leg pads, wet practice clothes and take a shower but for some reason the only thing he could concentrate on at the moment was the sounds of his flat-mate in the room next door and the odd comfort it provided knowing he wasn't alone.

*********

It was three in the morning when Marcus woke. He was lying almost sideways across his bed, feet hanging off the bottom corner. He groaned as he pushed his chest up and off the bed. His shoulders were sore from using his arms as a pillow and he stretched them above his head in an attempt to work out the kinks.

Even with his windows wide open his room was peacefully quiet. A slight breeze swept through rustling the few photos on the walls. Marcus could feel the wind creep down his neck and blow under the tee-shirt that clung to his skin. His mouth was dry and his head felt like it was stuck in a cloudy haze and all he wanted was to fall back asleep and forget about everything, but he knew his body wouldn't allow it.

"Bloody hell," he let himself fall back down onto the mattress. He needed a drink of water badly and wondered briefly if he could just summon it. He knew that wasn't going to happen and reluctantly rolled himself off the bed and headed towards the kitchen.

It was pitch black in their flat and Marcus cursed loudly as he knocked his hip against a table that sat against the wall between his and Oliver's bedrooms. He quickly reached out to steady it before he knocked the whole damn thing over.

"Remind me to kill you in the morning Wood for puttin' this fucking table here."

Once he was convinced the table had stopped wobbling he continued his journey over to the cupboard, grabbed a glass and filled it up at the sink. He downed the water and quickly filled it up again. Despite the slight chill in the air his throat felt as if it were on fire and the water was doing very little to dampen the flames.

"You been up this whole time?" A bleary eyed Oliver Wood emerged from his bedroom, obviously woken by the sounds of Marcus running into the table.

Marcus' intention was to spin around, yell at Wood for putting that stupid table right where anyone could trip over it and then storm back to bed. Instead he found himself leaning onto the counter for support and lightly mumbling the word "no" into his glass as he finished off the remaining water.

"Then why are you still in your practice clothes?" Oliver raised a questioning eyebrow as he gave the Chaser a good once over.

"I… what?" Marcus looked down at himself only to find he was wearing the same tee-shirt and shorts from his afternoon practice not to mention he had yet to take his shin guards off. "For fucks sake." He shook his head in disbelief. "I laid down for minute… must have passed right out."

To Oliver's surprise the Chaser made no attempt to remove the pads from his legs or discard the obviously dirty shirt.

"Want some help?" Oliver moved closer to Marcus, their bodies mere inches away by the time the last word had left his mouth.

The shear closeness of the other man was enough to jerk Marcus back into reality. He wanted to say no, wanted to back out of the situation completely but instead found he was already nodding without ever having fully thought through the question. Oliver smiled weakly back at him as if afraid to show more of a reaction. Using the counter for support Oliver bent down and began unfastening the metal buckles that held the pads tightly to the Chaser's legs. Marcus leaned back against the counter and closed his eyes. It was late a night in a dark room; he was leaning on a counter and had Wood on his knees in front of him—when this thought had briefly crossed his mind once before it was for something far different that quidditch gear.

Oliver fiddled with each buckle, brushing the excess dirt off the metal clasps as he went. Taking more time than was probably necessary he finished with the second pad and tried to push the discarded dirt that was on the floor into a neat pile. Marcus' eyes were closed, but he could still feel the warmth of the Keeper's body as it briefly grazed his own as Oliver stood back up.

"You really do look like hell." Oliver's tone was a little less humors this time as he studied the Chaser's face.

"Been worse off." Marcus reached a hand behind his neck to rub at the tense muscles.

"I'm sure ye 'ave, just…" Oliver extended the shin guards towards the Chaser's chest in an attempt to give them back, but Marcus' quickly and violently caught his hand in midair—a reflex action to stop any further contact between the two of them.

Their eyes locked as Flint held a tight grip around the Keeper's wrist.

"Oliver- I'm fine," the words sharp and to the point. The use of his first name completely ignored, overshadowed by the tone of Marcus's voice.

"Aye, I know you are Marcus." Oliver took another step closer and, once Marcus released his death grip, gently placed the pads into his free hand. They were standing toe to toe and even though Flint stood a little taller than Oliver, and Oliver a little broader than Marcus, their bodies had seemed to fall into perfect placement with one another. Neither moved, neither spoke and it took everything in Marcus to just keep breathing in that instant. And, as quickly as perfection had hit, it was over. Oliver released his grips on the shin guards and slowly backed away.

"I'll see ya in the morning Flint."

Back to surnames in only a matter of seconds, funny how it is so easy to fall back into old habits that offer so much comfort.

Marcus stood there, alone and in the dark. "Yea, see you in the morning," the words spoken to no one as the door to Wood's room had closed moments before.


End file.
